Divine Twisted Irony
by Kasigi Omi
Summary: What happens after the book. I wrote this as a gift for my girlfriend, and am only posting it for her, but I do hope you enjoy anyway.


Divine Twisted Irony  
  
As I sit here and observe the intricately woven silver band that encircles my finger, I am again overwhelmed by a sense of awe. The twisting patterns of the Celtic knot are a perfect representation of my life. Somehow, some way, one aspect of my life is utterly interwoven with all of the others. So it is with my old folly. Though I doubt not that I have made many mistakes in my thirty years, I shall always remember my infatuation with the young Christine Daae as the greatest of them. Indeed, the way I handled the situation was so ill advised that it makes all of my other mistakes seem minute in comparison.  
Feeling the press of her lips against my deformed and hated face made me see quite plainly what the most effective weapon to use against me was, and it was such a simple thing. I am utterly undone by the smallest show of human kindness and affection.  
Having lived so many years with only the barest of touches, even from my own mother, left me quite vulnerable in this aspect. Christine bought freedom for herself and her lover with that single, simple gesture.  
But my current tale takes place after all of that madness, though it is bound up in it in what I consider a rather delightful quirk of my always- twisted fate.  
After she left me I fled for my life. I waited several days out in the cold, hiding always from human sight, before I deemed it safe to return, though I had no intention of lingering. I was surprised at how little destruction they had left in their wake. Apparently they were still rather terrified at the idea of actually finding me, despite their greater numbers, and fled after only a cursory search.  
Gathering my manuscripts and some few of my other belongings I left Paris forever and booked passage to the "New World".  
There I comfortably established myself by doing whatever odd job I could find, from composing to architecture. Despite the grand ideals of America, however, only the most intelligent and gifted can actually achieve such a thing. I managed to make a rather decent living, though there were many uncomfortable moments at the beginning because of my mask.  
Because of this, only a very few were allowed into my presence once I had established myself and it was through one of these contacts that I came to hear of a new opera being written.  
Imagine my surprise when I heard that some American composer had heard of the incidents at the Paris Opera House and was writing a show based on it.  
I immediately sought the man out and he kindly allowed me to read his over his work, more than likely guessing at my true identity as he was a rather shrewd man and the mask is a bit hard to hide. I sat at his piano and played out some of his melodies, and found them overall very pleasing to the ear. Yet there were some notes that seemed out of place, or badly times, and I told him so.  
Rather than being offended, the good fellow inquired if I would like to help him write it. How could I possibly refuse?  
It was eerie, working on that piece for it was quite literally the story of a portion of my life. It was all there, every detail. The Opera House, Christine, Raoul, myself and my underground lair. I was deeply intrigued and slightly frightened by it all, yet I persevered.  
At last a theater was booked for it and the roles were cast. I was away at that time due to another project, but I trusted to my companion to select skilled singers. Little did I know the divine irony that awaited my return!  
For the first rehearsal I sat in on at my return forever changed my life. Again, all confusion in my miserable existence springs from Christine. What power that woman holds over me, even now!  
Standing down there on the stage was an angel, and she was singing my music, my story, in the character of the woman I had loved. I was utterly enraptured by her.  
Immediately I inquired of my companion who this woman was, and he informed me that she was a gifted but as yet unknown young singer by the name of Shannon Leviie.  
And gifted she was! She had just graduated from her schooling, and while she was not yet perfect, she was amazing and her voice promised to get even better with time and further practice.  
That night after rehearsal my felt found their way to her dressing room, and there I stopped for she was singing to herself. Her voice was even more beautiful at closer range and it was clear that she was pouring her heart and soul into it.  
Entranced I stopped and just listened to her, a move that proved to be my downfall. I was so lost in her singing that I hadn't heard her approaching the door until it was too late.  
There she stood in the open doorway, the song dead in her throat and her eyes locked on me. As I watched her, I saw the thoughts and emotions flicker across her painfully lovely face. Surprise, embarrassment, fear, hesitance and finally recognition. Again my mask had given my identity away.  
"It's you," she finally spoke, and her voice was soft and full of the promise of warmth and acceptance. I was unable to speak a reply, though my eyes began actively seeking an escape. She seemed to follow my thoughts and stepped towards me. "Please, don't go," she pleaded and how could I possibly flee then? It was already far too late for me to save myself.  
"I heard you singing," I confessed rather lamely. Even to my own ears I sounded the shy schoolboy talking to the most beautiful girl in the school. "Forgive me, but I had to listen in. You have a magnificent voice."  
Her skin held a naturally dark pigment, so it was almost imperceptible when she blushed, but blush she did. "That is a great compliment, especially coming from one such as yourself. At least, if the story is true."  
Sadly nodding I waved my hand in dismissal. "It is more true than false, I admit." The she smiled at me and I felt something awaken inside of me that I had thought dead since I had parted with Christine. I wanted this woman desperately. It unsettled me a great deal, but there was nothing I could do. I only hoped things would not go so terribly wrong a second time.  
"The Angel of Music," she mused, the awed smile still dancing about her lips.  
Casually she glanced over her shoulder back into her dressing room and I saw her start. "I can't believe how late it is! I really need to get home!"  
Due to years of being an abused outcast, I automatically assumed that she was only saying she was late as an excuse to get away from me. Before I could really indulge in my self-pity she asked if I would care to walk her home.  
It was truly amazing how comfortable we were with each other. Conversation came easily, and apparently she enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed hers for it became our habit for me to escort her home in the evenings.  
Several weeks passed in this way. The show began its run and became an overwhelming success, in no small part due to the glorious Shannon Leviie, though she was far too humble to accept her part and had a tendency to attribute it to the story and my brilliance instead. This was a habit I spent a great deal of energy trying to break her of, with only minimal progress.  
In the second week of the show a rather bad bug infected a good portion of the cast. Fortunately it mostly only hit understudies and extras, but it did manage to incapacitate Raoul, and the title character as well as his understudy.  
My dear friend was nearly hysterical at the loss of his Phantom, when he suddenly froze in his pacing and looked at me. He decided that I could do it. After all, I knew the part well and had my costume on already.  
That is how I found myself on stage facing the most beautiful woman I have ever seen at the grand finale of my own life story. Having watched the show countless times I was perfectly aware that "Christine" was supposed to kiss me. I also knew it was only a stage kiss, or at least I had assumed as much. I did question that when I found Shannon's soft lips pressed to mine.  
Fortunately I had some moments of awed silence before my next line, for had I not I would surely have missed my cue.  
That particular show received a better review than any that had preceded it. I was a success.  
I asked the man who usually played my part if she always kissed him properly, and he looked stunned then emitted a low whistle.  
"She's never kissed me before. She must like you. You're lucky, she's a real looker."  
I nodded absently; not really believing that I could possibly have her favor, and headed to her dressing room as was customary.  
That night, instead of just meeting me at the door she opened it and invited me in. I sat easily in a chair as she packed her bag to go home.  
There passed between us some trivialities, but all the time I was unable to forget that amazing kiss. Clever girl that she is, she easily guessed what I was thinking of, or perhaps she deduced it from the way my wandering eyes kept falling on her lips.  
"You can just ask me, you know," she told me, carefully avoiding my gaze.  
I didn't pretend not to understand what she meant. There would have been no point in pretending idiocy. "Why did you kiss me?"  
She set her hairbrush down and blushed faintly. "Because I knew you wouldn't kiss me first."  
How accurate an observation! Many a time the desire to kiss her had risen in me, but each time I had valiantly fought against it. Never once had I ever imagined that she might actually want me to kiss her.  
I stood and crossed the room to stand near her. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as I asked, "Then would you allow me to kiss you now?"  
Her arms wound tightly around my neck was all the encouragement I needed and with much eagerness I claimed her lips. That memory will forever stay with me.  
That was our first real kiss, but not our last by far.  
And one night when I had actually taken her back to my residence to celebrate a victorious run she didn't move to stop me when my baser instincts took me beyond the bounds of propriety.  
Afterwards, as we lay together on my bed, I clung to her soft, warm body and shook at the depth of emotion the act had stirred in me. She held me tightly, rubbing my bare back and kissing the top of my head. Oh yes, I was in love with her.  
The next day she came to visit and found me writing. The intensity of emotion from the previous night was still with me, and I found it impossible to describe in words or even coherent thoughts. The only possible outlet I could find was music, and I attempted to convey the experience in those soaring notes.  
Yet as I picked them out on the keyboard later I found that even my beloved music was not adept enough, though it was the closest by far. She was mildly embarrassed and flattered at my subject matter, but became quite fond of the piece none the less. Several more nights were spent blissfully making love before she finally asked me to remove my mask.  
I was curled comfortably against her warm side when she made her request, and even though my blood ran cold I didn't have the strength to refuse her anything.  
I raised my head and stared long into her eyes, before nodding slowly and rasping out, "You do it."  
Never taking her eyes from mine, she removed my mask and set it aside on the bed. Then she took my face in her hands, my disgusting, abhorrent face, and drew it up close to hers. "I love you, Erik," she whispered before kissing me.  
The salt I tasted on her lips was a mixture of sweat and my own tears. I was lost, undone, and forever hers. I spent the rest of the night telling her so with my eyes, my lips, my words.  
That was several months ago.  
I finally had someone who loved me and wasn't repulsed by my face. It was only a matter of time before the idea of marriage entered my head, and unlike my situation with Christine, I could ask Shannon in a more proper way.  
I made us a nice dinner one evening and then proposed to her. The terror I felt after the question had escaped my lips was unlike anything I had ever experienced.  
There was no need for it. She accepted my proposal and shortly afterwards I made her my wife.  
All through my wretched life I had hoped for such a thing, but never expected to actually achieve it. I am a very happy man. And there she is, standing in the doorway to my study, watching me write with such a loving smile on her face that I want to drop my pen, cross the room, take her into my arms and tell her how happy she has made me and how much I love her.  
So I believe I shall do just that. 


End file.
